


Steele Out-Foxxed

by SuzySteele



Category: Remington Steele (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuzySteele/pseuds/SuzySteele
Summary: It's 1981 and Bernice Foxe is unemployed. And then she spots an unusual help-wanted advertisement in the LA Tribune that just might change her life.





	Steele Out-Foxxed

She saw the advertisement on the folded-back pages of the Los Angeles Tribune that was propped up against the sugar bowl on her butcher block kitchen table. It was buried a third of the way down in column two of help-wanted ads, a mediocre location not dissimilar from the fifty-two previous position-wanted notices that she already responded to without success. Her daily routine was now distilled to a numbing sameness. She showered, styled her hair, and dressed in a smart, broad-shouldered suit for a job she no longer had, and then sat in the kitchenette of the upscale, sunlit apartment in Santa Monica that she clung to by a thin financial thread. She nursed a decaf as she read down the black-printed columns of help-wanted notices, her fingertips stained darker from the printing ink, and circled the possibilities with the freshly sharpened end of her pencil.  
  
“Secretarial/Receptionist. Typing, clerical, record management. Discretion essential. Contact Remington Steele Agency, 212-555-8458.”

Bernice Foxe wondered what a Remington Steele Agency was. She knew from past experience that, when they didn’t give you the details, the company was invariably a false front for a call girl service. Or a porn distributor. Or a sleazy talent agent looking for sex with young girls who thought he was their ticket to Hollywood.  
  
Remington Steele, she thought, sounded awfully posh. The kind of posh you’d call to hire a high-end call girl.  
  
Bernice gave a little sigh. She had interviewed with fifty-two secretarial / receptionist positions these past few months. Most of hiring managers wanted a pair of breasts and long legs that he could ogle. She had the good looks in spades, but she was fed up with the ogling that came along with it. She had no interest in yet another interview that focused on her looks instead of her resume. No one would fault her if she passed by the advertisement.  
  
But the request for discretion caught her curiosity. As a business professional in Los Angeles, she knew what discretion ought to mean: hold your tongue and see and hear nothing as the rich and famous passed through your outer office to the inner, private office. Sadly, these days’ discretion more likely meant that you wouldn’t yelp blue murder when the boss dropped his hand on your thigh. She was finished with that nonsense, too.  
  
She gave the advert a second read, and then a third. And wondered. She figured that she had a pretty firm grasp on discretion, considering that her prior employer was an investment broker. previous employer had embezzled twenty-seven thousand from his clients and she hadn’t said a peep until he blew his brains out as the police knocked at his office door.  
  
Perhaps the Remington Steele Agency was a temp firm? She hoped not. Temp firms were just as bad in the butt-pinching, breast-brushing job category. On the plus side, at least the job would tide her over until she found something more permanent and fiscally secure, since her former boss had also thoughtfully spent out her last paycheck. And, what the hell. Looking was free.  
  
The bit about discretion still piqued her interest.  
  
So she washed up the plate that held her toast and set it in on the drying rack beside the sink, and as soon as the Westclock beside the kitchen doorframe read nine-oh-five, she called the number. A woman answered, which surprised Bernice. She sounded young. But composed and professional, and Bernice passed the screening questions handily. Sixty words a minute? Check. Handling traffic flow of clients? Check. Working with expensive clients? Check. Her previous job had all been wealthy clients. Wealthy, that is, until the boss cleaned out their financial assets. References? Yeah, if you included the D.A. who investigated the aftermath. Managing files according to legal standards? Check and a half. It was her ex-boss who’d blown the legal aspects of the work, not she. Though it would not be prudent to mention him in this first conversation.   
  
The woman on the phone – she introduced herself as Laura Holt – liked Bernice’s answers to the screening questions, and invited her for a physical interview. Bernice was of two minds because the Holt woman sounded so young. What decided her was learning that the address was in the Century Plaza Towers. Posh. Ambitious. And filled with rich bachelor types who might be seeking wives. Or at least an affair.  
  
Any of those definitely beat a boss who had blown his brains out.  
  
The following afternoon, she had her interview. The towers were a West L.A. landmark and everyone knew where they were. Its enormous parking garage was filled with Mercedes and Beemers and Mazda Z-210s, and all would be driven by the kind of clients she used to manage until her boss spent all their money. She rode the elevator to the eleventh floor and the sidelong glances of fellow travelers on the ride up confirmed that her subdued dark suit and cream silk blouse were flattering.  
  
Suite 1157 was certainly posh. It was an expensive corner suite in the tri-sided building, a compromise that provided height but was not nearly as pricey as the upper-most floors. A location that conveyed a message that the Remington Steele Agency was on its way up. The reception area was beautifully furnished in a color scheme of grey and cranberry, and this too conferred a message of professionalism and assurance. Her arrival in the reception area was greeted by a woman who emerged from an inner office. The woman was much younger than herself, young enough to be mistaken for a teen if you hadn’t noticed the determined look in her eye and the aura of confidence that she wore like a neat-fitting glove. The woman’s chestnut hair fell softly across her shoulders and her outfit was straight out of John T. Molloy’s Women’s Dress for Success, an oatmeal linen suit and peacock-tinted silk shirt with the soft flounced tie that said professional. Bernice found herself liking her instinctively. She also thought the woman looked a little familiar, but she couldn’t remember when, where, or why. Then the woman began speaking, and she tucked away her curiosity to focus on the interview.  
  
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Foxe. I’m Laura Holt. We spoke on the phone. Please, come into the office and have a seat.”  
  
Bernice followed her into a large inner office, where she expected to meet this Remington Steele. Instead, she was surprised as the woman – Laura Holt – circled the enormous desk and took the leather executive chair at its opposite side, where she was framed against the windows. Bernice took the opportunity to inspect both the woman and the large inner office. Shirred transparent drapes softened the harsh Los Angeles sunlight. This was highly desired corner office with two exterior walls and a double bank of windows that featured amazing views that went for miles. Or would have done save for LA’s ubiquitous smog. The desk was expensive, too. Designer, with sleek chrome and a polished burled wood top, and all the real deal. Bernice had developed an eye for expensive over the years. Very useful for sizing up a potential hire. Despite herself, Bernice raised a mental eyebrow. Heavens, could this woman be the boss? What kind of a man lets the secretary use his office desk?  
  
The enormous leather seat dwarfed the young woman sitting in it. Before her laid Bernice’s resume. She gave it a perfunctory glance and launched in, and Bernice had the impression that she’d memorized its contents, for she never looked at it again.  
  
“I understand,” Miss Holt began (Bernice notice the absence of a wedding ring), “that you spent twelve years with your previous employer. Thomas Harlow Investments, LLC.”  
  
“That’s correct.”  
  
“What were your responsibilities there?”  
  
Easy question. “I managed his office. Mr. Harlow was a broker and handled client investments. I handled his correspondence, answered the phones, mailed invoices, and the like.”  
  
“Twelve years is a long time. Why are you looking now?” The Holt woman’s manner was frank and direct, but not judgmental. In Bernice’s experience, most women in a managerial position either were hesitant or were overbearing in an attempt to hide their hesitancy. Laura Holt was neither, and Bernice found it refreshing.  
  
“The office closed.”  
  
“Oh?” An eyebrow went up and Bernice had the sudden feeling that this young woman knew exactly what had happened with Mr. Harlow. Shit, she thought. Here it comes. And faster than usual.  
  
Her clasped hands in her lap tensed, and she felt a trickle of damp beneath the silk of her blouse. But she maintained eye contact. There was something about this Miss Holt…She decided to play that hunch. “We ran out of money. Or rather, my boss did. He had a gambling problem and embezzled the clients’ investments and then killed himself when the losses were discovered.”  
  
“And your role in that was…?” Her tone remained even, and Bernice shook her head. She was aware that her pulse had sped up, and she started to realize that this interview was a mistake.  
  
“None, except for ignorance. Thomas – Mr. Harlow – put up a good front. I didn’t know he was juggling the books. It was a classic Ponzi scheme and he fooled a lot of people who didn’t deserve to have their investments stolen.”  
  
Now Laura Holt folded her hands and leaned forward over the open file that rested on the designer desk surface. Inviting a confidence. “It’s hard to believe that you didn’t catch on. After all, you managed his files and billing. You worked with him every day.” It wasn’t an accusation, but a respectful question that invited honesty. Laura Holt was a good interviewer and, despite herself, Bernice found herself saying more than she intended.  
  
“I did figure it out. At the end. But…the end caught up too fast and by the time I understood what was going on, it was too late.” When Bernice closed her eyes, she still heard the echo of that muffled gunshot and the crash of the locked inner door as the policemen kicked it through. The remnants of poor Thomas were scattered across his desk and ringed by a growing pool of red. The acrid stench of gunpowder and the metallic tang of his blood still stung her memory. Her senses swam a moment, overwhelmed by raw emotions that were still fresh weeks and weeks later. She realized her palms were clammy against the arm rests of her chair. She rose abruptly and the room swayed and her words tumbled out, too quickly.  
  
“Thanks for letting me interview. You’ll find my references are probably no good. I mean, my boss was a crook and he’s dead, none of his former clients will vouch for me, and my best references are from the assistant district attorney and accountant that I worked with to straighten out the files afterward. Everyone else thinks I must’ve been involved. I apologize for wasting your time.”  
  
She walked briskly toward the door, head high and trying to preserve the remnants of her dignity, when the young woman called sharply, “Wait!” and there was something commanding in her tone that made Bernice pause. Laura Holt continued, addressing Bernice’s rigid back. “Miss Foxe. I wasn’t exactly honest with you just now. I know all about what happened. And who you are.”  
  
And then Bernice had it. Two weeks before Thomas’s death, a young woman made an appointment with Harlow. She asked him a lot of questions that left him rattled like Bernice had never seen. Afterward, Harlow dismissed it as a disgruntled client, and Bernice had forgotten about it. Hadn’t connected it with what happened two weeks later. Until now.  
  
That young woman was now seated across the desk from her. Laura Holt. She remembered the name now from the appointment calendar.  
  
She swung around toward the desk and the young woman behind it.  
  
“Who are you?” she asked, slightly awed, and her opponent had the grace to flush.  
  
“I’m sorry. My name is Laura Holt. For obvious reasons at the time, I didn’t reveal that I’m a private investigator. One of your clients hired me to investigate your former employer. I’m the person who gathered the evidence and turned it over to the police.” She glanced down at her hands. And back up. She looked sympathetic, yet unapologetic. “That was dishonest of me, just now. I should have told you this when we met.”  
  
Bernice asked slowly, “Why would you interview me? If you knew?”  
  
“Because I knew from my investigation that you were unaware of what your boss had done. And when you did learn, you handled it professionally. Discretely. I could use someone like that.”  
  
“You?” Now she blinked.  
  
“Yes. I mean,” and she looked a little sheepish, “Mr. Steele. The agency.” She gestured at the chair Bernice had just vacated. “Please. Would you allow me to tell you about the position?”  
  
“You mean it?” asked Bernice, although she couldn’t keep the suspicion from her voice, and Laura Holt shrugged and arched an eyebrow.  
  
“You got this far. What have either of us got to lose?” She looked impossibly young and yet had a confidence and maturity that won Bernice over.  
  
“Why not?” she agreed and was rewarded with an answering grin as she regained her seat, the irrepressible sort that might come from a confiding kid sister. And maybe they were sisters, of a sort.  
  
Laura leaned forward again and, as she spoke, Bernice was struck by the passion in her well-modulated voice and the quick gestures with her slim hands. “Remington Steele Investigations is a different kind of detective agency. We’re not interested in divorce cases or errant spouses. We specialize in high-end clients who value discretion and results. We provide security for high-profile events, address business embezzlement, handle intellectual property theft, and the like. Our business is young and growing and we require a full-time receptionist to manage the client flow, phone queries, billing, and so forth. We’re also frequently required to testify in court, and that means our case files must be kept up to date and in a format that satisfies legal discovery.”  
  
“I haven’t needed to handle legal discovery,” said Bernice with more candor than was wise, “but I’m a quick study and can easily learn.” She tilted her head. “Who’s ‘we’?”  
  
“Myself and my partner. Murphy Michaels.”  
  
“And Remington Steele?” she asked. She had learned to ask pointed questions thanks to Thomas Harlow.  
  
Here Laura Holt hesitated. “Mr. Steele…functions best in an advisory capacity. He’s often busy with travel. Consulting with clients.” She laughed a little. “There’s a good chance you’ll never see him.”  
  
“Sounds like a dream boss.”  
  
At that, Laura Holt grinned. “I’d say that’s a fairly good description.”  
  
They chatted more and, two days later, Laura Holt called and offered her the job and a decent salary, and it took Bernice four seconds to accept. She liked Laura Holt and, when she met him, liked the easy-going Murphy Michaels. The two investigators seemed to work well together and Bernice found herself fitting easily into their daily operations. Learning the legal requirements for their record keeping wasn’t hard and she was able to improve the documentation system, which earned a grateful acknowledgement.  
  
So Bernice Foxe settled into her new position and enjoyed ogling the good-looking men who shared the elevator in the mornings and evenings, and found it exciting to type up her new employers’ case notes, and usher clients in and out of Mr. Steele’s office. The only thing that baffled her a little was Mr. Remington Steele himself. Or more accurately, the lack of Mr. Remington Steele. Laura Holt wasn’t kidding about the man having a busy schedule; she had yet to meet her new boss. And, as the weeks went by, she realized that she had yet to speak with him, either. He never called the office and asked to be put through to Laura or Murph, as she’d come to call them. He had an address that turned out to be an apartment in a trendy condo, but he never submitted receipts for reimbursement. He had no case files to submit. Laura balanced the books, which Bernice thought odd, but Laura explained that she’d been a math major at Stanford and “I like to keep my hand in numbers.”  
  
As the days turned into weeks, Bernice occasionally wondered if there might be something funny going on. The business with Thomas Harlow had fine-tuned her radar and she wasn’t about to take an employer for granted again. Besides, she couldn’t help her growing curiosity about this Remington Steele. (And what a name!) So, one day when Laura and Murphy had traveled down to San Diego in pursuit of a book-keeper who’d fled with the proceeds from a local restaurant chain, Bernice took advantage of their absence from the Century Plaza Towers and rummaged through Mr. Steele’s desk.  
  
The drawers were shockingly empty. No pencils, no scribbled notes, not even a nail file. It was a little odd, since her own belongings were already starting to clutter the drawers of her receptionist desk.  
  
She frowned and, after a moment’s thought, turned her attention to the case files in the cabinet in Laura’s office, where she filed those typed-up case reports. The small bout of espionage gave her a twinge of guilt, but this was easily stifled by her recollection of Harlow and where she might be now had she asked the tough questions back then.  
  
In the files, she found reports from Murphy. Reports from Laura. And none from Mr. Remington Steele.  
  
The office was quiet and Bernice returned to her desk to think, thoughtfully tapping the eraser end of a pencil against her teeth. What exactly did the guy do to earn his keep at the agency? Because it was clear that, despite the luxurious offices and Mr. Steele’s stylish address, the agency was held together with duct tape, and Murph and Laura lived on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  
  
And yet…Steele’s signature was on the suite’s lease; she found the original in the files. There was a printed biography sheet of his exploits that was distributed whenever the media called about a particularly noteworthy case. Bernice had memorized it. Ex-CIA. Consulted for the FBI and several foreign agencies. Interpol. The Surete. MI-5.  
  
The little puzzle nagged at her, and a week later, during a lull in business, Bernice asked about the boss’s absence. “He travels a great deal, Bernice,” said Laura as the two of them relaxed in the comfortable arrangement of leather sofas and armchairs in Steele’s office, their coffee mugs in hand. Laura’s mug said Laura and was apparently a gift from a young niece and nephew. “I explained it when we hired you,” Laura continued. “He prefers to work in the background. I expect it’s his CIA training.”  
  
“But he doesn’t call in. There aren’t any images displayed in the office.”  
  
“That’s not surprising. He doesn’t like to be photographed. He wouldn’t want his cover broken during an investigation.”  
  
“There’s no pictures of you, either,” Bernice pointed out, and Laura smiled.  
  
“That’s because no one notices a woman who pokes about asking questions. That’s the beauty of my position. They think I don’t matter.”  
  
The explanation made sense and Bernice amused herself during idle moments wondering what this Mr. Steele might look like. Ruggedly handsome like Robert Redford in Day of the Condor? Or Richard Burton in that John Le Carre movie? Then the receptionist phone rang, and she sighed. Probably he was short and heavy and looked like Nero Wolfe or Telly Savalas or Frank Cannon.  
  
Mind, she had no context for knowing what a detective looked like. And Laura and Murphy looked normal enough. She was letting her imagination run away.  
  
She gave it no further thought apart from occasionally wondering when it was that she’d finally meet the peripatetic Remington Steele. And the thought might have remained idle, except that she chanced upon an overheard conversation several weeks later. A client insisted on meeting Mr. Steele, and she overheard Laura as she apologized and explained that Mr. Steele was currently in France and then Germany until the end of next week.  
  
Except that Bernice had been present earlier that morning when Murphy told a different client that the boss was in Washington D.C.  
  
Why would Remington Steele lie to his associates about his whereabouts?  
  
She decided to share her concerns with Laura the following day, over a shared lunch that was take-away salads from the ground-floor deli. “So, how much do you really know about this Remington Steele?”  
  
Laura didn’t look up from neatly spearing a cherry tomato in her own salad. “Enough to trust him implicitly. What makes you ask?”  
  
“Well…” She decided to play it dumb, just to see what would happen. “I was kinda confused about his plans. Yesterday morning, Murphy told a client he was in Washington, and then in the afternoon you told someone he’s in France.” Laura looked up then, an eyebrow raised. “So which one’s right? I mean, how many places can a guy be at the same time?”  
  
To her relief, Laura laughed. “That’s our Mr. Steele. Peripatetic’s his middle name.”  
  
“And the answer?” She wasn’t about to let it go.  
  
“We both lied to a client. You can imagine that, often he doesn’t want us to divulge where he really is. So he asks Murph and me to make up stuff. We didn’t know you overheard. I’m sorry it confused you. We should have explained it.”  
  
But Bernice thought of something else. “All that travel must get expensive.”  
  
“I suppose it does.”  
  
“Yet he doesn’t file expense reports like you and Murphy do.”  
  
The reply was delayed while Laura chewed. Swallowed. Took a drink of diet soda. “Well, he does. Remember I handle his paperwork and the books.”  
  
“But still…All that travel must get awfully expensive.”  
  
Here, Laura leaned forward. A confidential gesture. “Bernice, can you keep a secret?” She nodded. “Truth is, he doesn’t like people to know. But he’s independently wealthy.”  
  
It made sense. “Piles of money? Never around? Sounds like he’s Charlie, and you and Murph are his angels.”  
  
At that, Laura threw her head back and laughed. She had a lovely laugh, Bernice thought, genuine and kind. “I love it! Hadn’t thought of that, but I love it.” Then she leaned forward, girl-to-girl confidential. “Just don’t tell Murphy he’s an Angel. I’m not sure how he’d take the news.”  
  
“You know, he kinda reminds me of Farrah Fawcett, in a blonde sort of guy way.” And they giggled their way through the rest of lunch, debating whether Laura was more like Kate Jackson or Jaclyn Smith. They settled on Kate Jackson, of course.  
  
And on the Monday, Laura arrived at the office with a six-inch tall stack of folders that she dropped onto Bernice’s desk with a soft thump. “Here they are. Mr. Steele’s expense reports. I had them at home, from filing our taxes. Now that you’re in on the secret, I guess it’s okay to keep them here. Could you file them with the rest?”  
  
Later that morning, Laura left to interview suspects and Bernice used her absence to leaf through the folders as she filed them away. Sure enough, there were airline tickets to Paris, invoices from a travel agency, restaurant receipts and AmEx carbons. And invoices mailed and returned, with ‘PAID’ stamped on their surface and a check number scribbled beneath the red inked letters. So apparently Remington Steele didn’t absorb all his business expenses.  
  
Except…What was his business? There were case reports for Murphy and Laura, and business expenses that went along with each. Now the mysterious Mr. Steele had business expenses as well.  
  
And no case files to go along with them. So how did Mr. Steele justify the bills for his expenses? Judging by the files, Mr. Steele didn’t do a lick of work. Yet he had a carte blanche account, and meanwhile paid the hard-working Laura and Murphy salaries that left them on that peanut-butter-and-jelly diet.  
  
Boy, if she ever met this mysterious Remington Steele, Bernice would give him a piece of her mind.  
  
Mr. Steele’s arrogance nagged at her conscience, but she held her tongue. Business continued to grow, Laura and Murph were busy with important cases, and Bernice grew increasing comfortable with her role as office coordinator. Somedays, she even hoped that this Remington Steele would never show up, because the working arrangement between herself, Murphy, and Laura was so comfortable.  
  
And there the matter rested. Laura and Murph became wrapped up in an assignment that was unusually extended and complex. It involved fraud within the Orange County judiciary and suspicions that a pair of bailiffs took bribes to misdirect the legal wheels. It took Laura and Murph two weeks of full-time work to crack it, and the resolution drew considerable media attention. A proud Bernice watched on the evening news as excited reporters interviewed Laura on the courthouse steps. She wore her grey fedora and it gave her a compellingly rakish look – not too dissimilar from Bogie’s – as she met the cluster of reporters who had gotten wind of the scandal and were on hand for the arrests and perp walk down the courthouse steps and to the awaiting police cars.  
  
“What drew Remington Steele’s suspicions to the bailiff’s office?” asked a reporter.  
  
“Our client, who currently wishes to remain anonymous, noted payment inconsistencies and unevenness in how bails were credited to plaintiffs. Our undercover investigation–” Laura got herself into the office and saw how the scam worked, while Murph played a lawyer who wanted to buy-off his client – “confirmed the diversion of cash flow. To quote Bob Woodward, we followed the money.”  
  
“How big is the scandal?” asked another. “Are other offices affected?”  
  
“That’s for the D.A. to answer and we’ve no information to offer on that point. The Remington Steele Agency was simply asked to follow the evidence at our client’s request.”  
  
Another reporter asked, “The timing on this is sensational given next month’s election. Do you think Judge Hanforth will be reelected? He’s running a law-and-order campaign and the crimes happened right under his nose.”  
  
Laura had shrugged delicately. “That’s a decision for the voters,” she said into the cluster of microphones and recorders thrust before her pert face. “If the allegations are true, then it’s possible that multiple cases will be revisited for misconduct.” Two weeks hence, Hanforth would not be reelected.  
  
“Where’s Mr. Steele? We’d like a statement from him.”  
  
Here, Laura looked chagrined and opened her hands with a pacifying gesture. “Mr. Steele regrets his inability to speak with you directly. He was called away to an urgent situation in Mexico City. However, he asked me to reiterate that, while pleased with the successful outcome, he’s disappointed that so many good people were victimized by this miscarriage of justice. He hopes for a successful outcome as the case proceeds to trial.”  
  
Bernice listened. And while she ate lunch at her desk, typed up Laura and Murphy’s case notes, and scheduled their depositions, she thought about what Laura said about justice and fraud and their personal costs. She thought it wasn’t fair that Remington Steele mouthed platitudes about justice and fairness, while Laura and Murph did all work and got none of the credit. It wasn’t fair at all.  
  
It was time to figure out exactly what this Remington Steele did for the agency.  
  
During the months of her new employment, Bernice Foxe had learned a few tricks from these brilliant, real-life detectives. She listened to their stories of where the clues had come from and how they pieced together one deception after another. There was a case involving the fraudulent transport of counterfeit luxury goods by a ring of airline pilots. Another involved dueling sabotage between a pair of four-star chefs, where Laura and Murphy worked undercover and brought back amazing food in doggie bags. Now Bernice took their lessons to heart and began to dig, taking opportunities when Laura and Murphy were out of the office.  
  
She rummaged deeper through the files and confirmed that she couldn’t locate a single invoice from Mr. Steele’s business travel, apart from the ones that Laura had given her. Clients were billed for Murphy’s and Laura’s time, and for Mr. Steele’s. But Mr. Steele never filed a case report.  
  
Moreover, he never signed off on Laura’s or Murphy’s reports, and he never made scribbled notes in their margins, although both Laura and Murph did so on each other’s. There were no phone bills for international calls when he consulted with his team back in LA. He was never asked to testify.  
  
What exactly does this guy do to justify his name on the office’s glass-fronted door?  
  
She didn’t like that Murph and Laura were so clearly underpaid. She didn’t like that they were the “unidentified detectives” who stood in an unfocused background while the newspapers raved about their glamorous, invisible boss. It made her mad that Laura and Murph worked for a pittance, while Mr. Steele lived the high life of international travel.  
  
Bernice Foxe decided it was time to give Remington Steele a piece of her mind.  
  
She also knew that, if Laura or Murph were to catch wind of her plan, they’d try to dissuade her.  
  
So she waited for a day when Laura and Murph drove to Palm Desert on a case, and she screwed up her nerve and decided to pay a visit to Mr. Steele. Or rather, to Mr. Steele’s apartment, because he was once again out of town, this time in Tokyo. She knew his address – way more expensive than what Bernice could afford – because the agency paid his rent every month. And Bernice had another advantage over the man. In search of keys to the agency’s safe several months back, she riffled the top drawer of Laura’s desk and found another pair of keys, these tagged with Mr. Steele’s address. Now, she succumbed to temptation and snatched the keys from Laura’s desk and then drove her Honda hatchback to the address.  
  
Mr. Steele lived in a toney new complex, sleek and modern and minimalist, a lot like the office. She parked in its expansive shaded visitors’ lot and walked up the sidewalk to the building’s lobby. There was no doorman – a blessing – and as a further beatitude, there was a bank of locked mailboxes that explained the smaller, second key on Laura’s ring. Bernice gave it a try. To her disappointment, the narrow mailbox held nothing but flyers for local businesses and a month’s worth of weekly newspaper shoppers. No letters. No bills. No secret envelopes postmarked from Prague or Buenos Aires.  
  
Apparently Mr. Steele was so secretive that he eschewed the U.S. postal service.  
  
The larger brass key was stamped 314, and she deduced this indicated a third floor apartment. She shoved the junk mail back into its box, relocked it, and rode the elevator to three. An elderly man with a small dog boarded the elevator with her, and he gave her a curious glance. “You’re too pretty to be here at this time of day,” he said, meaning to be kind rather than nosey.  
  
“I’m Mr. Steele’s secretary. Mr. Remington Steele. On three.”  
  
“Hmm. Can’t say that I know him. And Delilah and me pretty much know everyone here.” Delilah barked, once, at hearing her name.  
  
“He’s a very busy man,” explained Bernice.  
  
“That’s what Miss Holt said when she helped him move in.” He winked at her. “Now, Miss Holt? I do remember her. Your Mr. Steele certainly knows how to surround himself with pretty girls.”  
  
Mercifully, the elevator stopped and its doors opened onto three. She darted out before he could ask any more questions that she didn’t know how to answer.  
  
Her feet sank into thick carpeting and her heart pounded as she walked up the hallway and approached the gleaming wood-paneled door labeled 314. She had invented a cover story in case Tokyo was a lie, but it fled from her panicked mind now that reality stood before her. What if he was here? What would she say if he really was here and opened the door?  
  
I’d tell him how horrible he is! Making Laura and Murph do the work while he takes the bows! What a jerk! They’d be better off without him! The rat!  
  
Ire roused, she knocked sharply at the door, louder than she intended. Silence. There was a doorbell, and she pressed that, too. She heard it buzz clearly on the other side of the door. But no one came. She knocked louder. “Mr. Steele?” Silence inside.  
  
Now what? She looked down at the key ring, the metal slick in her damp hand. You brought for a reason, didn’t you? Didn’t you mean to go inside and find out what he’s really doing?  
  
She thought of Laura. She thought of Murph. And how nice they were, and how hard they worked, and how they didn’t deserve to be treated the way they were. And that decided her. She took the key. Inserted it into the lock. Turned it. The mechanism moved easily.  
  
Her stomach doing flip-flops, she slowly turned the door knob and eased open the door.  
  
And stared at the last thing she expected to see.  
  
Which was nothing.  
  
The apartment was empty. Not a stick of furniture. Nary a cushion to sit upon. No table to eat from. No pictures on the walls.  
  
She stood before the open doorway, staring at the emptiness, for what felt like minutes but could only be moments. Then she recollected herself, stepped inside, and hastily closed the door behind her, throwing the deadbolt home to prevent unwanted intrusion.  
  
“Mr. Steele?” she called cautiously, but didn’t expect an answer. Her voice echoed a little against the bare, beige-painted walls. There was no one here. No one had ever been here. Maybe she had the wrong apartment?  
  
Don’t be ridiculous, Bernice! Your key opened the door!  
  
She performed a quick walk through. No food in the refrigerator. No dishes in the cupboards. No bed in the bedroom, nor clothes in the closets. No shaving tackle or toothbrush in the luxurious bathroom. Just her dark-eyed, astonished expression as she gazed into the enormous mirror that fronted a marble-topped bathroom sink and cabinet.  
  
She wandered back into the main sitting area and, thinking hard, she sat herself down onto the plush pile of the carpeted floor. No mean feat in her pencil skirt and heels.  
  
What the hell was going on?  
  
Why does the agency pay Mr. Steele to keep an empty apartment?  
  
Because Laura and Murphy don’t know it’s empty. The thought chilled her. The gentleman on the elevator said Laura helped him move in. What if Mr. Steele then moved right out? Leaving Laura and Murphy to believe they had a real boss? And then he filed fake expense reports and used the money to waltz off to Vegas or Paris or other exotic locals at the agency’s expense. He pretended to be consulting around the world, submitted fake bills, and Laura foolishly paid them, while she and Murphy slaved away in LA on real cases. He kept the apartment so that Laura and Murphy would think he worked with them. Maybe this really was like Charlie’s Angels?  
  
No. That doesn’t make sense. Laura has a key. Surely she’d know about it.  
  
…What if she does?  
  
The thought betrayed her before she could stop it, and she hated herself for it. And as she thought it through, she realized that Laura was very protective of Mr. Steele. Even defensive. Was she blindly loyal and didn’t see it? If so, that would make her the world’s worse detective, and Bernice knew Laura Holt was a damn fine detective.  
  
Which only left…Was Laura Holt covering up for him?  
  
And if so…why?  
  
The thought made her nauseous. She was suddenly sorry that she had come. It was like poor Mr. Harlow, all over again. She fled the apartment, locking the door behind her, and drove back to the office with unsteady hands, grateful that Laura and Murph weren’t due back till tomorrow. That evening, she had no appetite for her dinner and, afterward, she couldn’t sleep, and when finally did she, she again had those awful dreams where she saw poor Thomas Harlow and his brains blown out across his desk.  
  
In the morning, her nausea had dulled to a steady ache, and sleep had clarified her thought, and she finally knew what she had to do. After all, she’d seen Laura and Murphy do it often enough, and apart from an initial hesitation, it wasn’t hard to copy what they did every day. So later that week, when she ran an errand for Murphy at the State records bureau, she took an extra hour and discovered there was no driver’s license recorded for Remington Steele. A second errand revealed that he had never owned property. The third found that he never paid an income tax. And so while Laura Holt thought Bernice was writing cover letters at her desk, she instead wrote a letter to the state licensing board, drafting it using a stenopad and shorthand so that her employers couldn’t read it.  
  
Dear Sirs,  
  
I have reason to believe that my employer, Remington Steele, is a fraud. After detailed investigation, I can find no evidence that a man using that name exists. Work attributed to him was never performed by him. Clients are fraudulently billed for that non-existent work…  
  
Her hand hesitated, and after a long moment, she laid down her pencil. The case wasn’t as obvious as it looked on paper. Over the past few months, her feelings surrounding the agency had changed. It wasn’t just a job. She genuinely liked Laura and Murph, and she considered them friends. They were decent and hard-working and kind. The agency was increasingly successful, and this was entirely due to their energies.  
  
And, upon consideration, it wasn’t fair that their lives should be ruined by Mr. Steele’s lies. Bernice’s conscience reminded that it was only fair that she warn Laura and Murphy about him. Just like she sure as hell wished someone had warned her about Harlow. But there was also danger in her warning, because once they did know, Laura and Murph were obligated to act. And then all three of them would be out of a job. Bernice knew how bitter an experience that was. And how lasting the damage would be.  
  
And so she watched and listened, and despite her efforts, she still wasn’t certain which way the fraud ran. Were the determined Laura Holt and the easy-going Murphy Michaels as big a victim of the fraudulent Mr. Steele?  
  
Or were they part of the fraud themselves?  
  
If only she could figure it out? So she kept the draft letter tucked into her stenopad, and mulled over the problem as she paid her bills at the kitchen table, made morning coffee at the office, and did her light housekeeping. She’d been through one disastrous situation when no one intervened until it was too late. She wasn’t making that mistake again. After all, a girl had to look out for herself.  
  
And truth be told, maybe look out a little for Laura as well. Bernice had come to like and respect that courageous young woman. Laura had clearly invested her heart in the agency. It was for Laura that Bernice felt worst.  
  
So as she vacuumed and stamped envelopes and cleaned the coffeepot, she slowly devised a plan to ascertain if her hunch was right. It had the beauty that, if she was wrong, then nothing would change. And if she was right?  
  
Well, then, she thought with a sigh. I guess that draft letter will come in handy.  
  
She waited for an opportunity when both Laura and Murphy had been out for most of the day, leaving Bernice to manage the quiet office.  
  
It was just past three-thirty when Laura and Murph returned to the eleventh floor suite. Their laughter preceded them as they entered through the large glass doors, and she overheard Murphy saying, “I still can’t get over the expression on that guy’s face! It was priceless! He couldn’t believe anyone knew he’d hired that hooker.”  
  
“And the hooker was even more shocked when the wife turned up at the hotel to meet her!” That was Laura.  
  
Bernice’s eyes went wide as she heard the last half of the story. “The guy hired a hooker for his wife?!”  
  
“No, he hired the hooker for his business partner.” Laura dropped her shoulder bag on Bernice’s receptionist desk, while Murphy perched himself on the credenza across from Bernice’s desk. “Then he set up the partner and hooker to get caught by the partner’s wife.”  
  
“You see,” Murphy added, “He knew that divorce would force his partner to liquidate their joint assets.”  
  
“And we confirmed that he needed the money to cover his gambling debts.”  
  
Bernice glanced from one to the other. “So what went wrong?”  
  
Murphy started laughing again. “The first guy’s wife found the receipt and contacted us.”  
  
Bernice’s eyes widened. “Hookers give receipts?”  
  
“Just the high-class ones,” Laura assured her with a grin.  
  
“The wife put two-and-two together,” Murphy continued, “and concluded her husband was siphoning business funds to the hooker. So she contacted us to protect her share of the assets.”  
  
“Some assets, huh?”  
  
Laura said with a chuckle and wave of her hands, “The best part was when we had the hooker identify the guy who hired her. He actually fainted! Any messages while we were out?”  
  
“Several,” and Bernice passed the memo slips over her desk for Laura to peruse. Her own heart was pounding and she hoped Laura didn’t catch the sudden tremble in her hand. “Mr. Abernathy called and confirmed 10am for tomorrow. A Mrs. Crawford from First American Bank would appreciate a call back on ‘a matter of some delicacy.’ And Arthur has your handwriting analysis ready.” She paused a beat and then added, just as Laura reached the bottom slip of paper, “Oh, and Mr. Steele called and requested the limo to collect him at John Wayne Airport at seven this evening. He said his work wrapped up unexpectedly and he’s on his way in.”  
  
At the words and seeing the memo, Laura froze in mid-step. Bernice could have sworn she’d gone white. Certainly her fingers had tightened on the paper because Bernice could see the fresh crease. Shit, thought Bernice. Shit shit shit…  
  
“Mr. Steele?” The words sounded forced.  
  
“The man himself. I can’t believe I finally meet him,” continued Bernice. She didn’t know how her voice remained steady while her gut did flip-flops at Laura’s response. She was thankful to have memorized her script. “You’re right about Mr. Steele. He seems very kind. But incredibly busy. Anyway, he apologized and asked if you and Fred could collect him.”  
  
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Murphy tense and watch Laura intently. Now he turned to focus on Bernice. “You sure you heard that right? Mr. Steele?”  
  
Bernice shrugged with deliberate innocence. “How many Remington Steele’s can there be?”  
  
Laura appeared to have recovered her wits. “Thank you, Bernice. We’re just surprised because Mr. Steele had plans to visit Sydney next. A security issue. I’ll make sure Fred is notified.” And she strolled back into her side office and Murphy into his. Bernice counted to five and then dashed on high heels around her desk and across the Berber carpet to Laura’s closed door, and she pressed an ear to the doorknob.  
  
“What in the hell’s going on!” It was Murphy, agitated and not doing a good job of keeping his voice down. Clearly he’d shot through the center office to join Laura in hers. “What Mister Steele?!”  
  
“Obviously there’s been some sort of mistake.” Laura’s voice. Calmer. Soothing. “Either someone is pulling a prank at our expense, or Bernice misunderstood.”  
  
“That’s a helluva misunderstanding, Laura. Asking for Fred by name? Who else knows Fred?”  
  
“I don’t know. But we’re not going to waste the poor man’s time on someone who isn’t going to show.”  
  
“Someone’s on to it, Laura. Who knows about Mr. Steele?”  
  
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a bluff. Or a mistake.”  
  
“Some mistake. If word gets out, our reputation is ruined. Who’d trust the agency after this?”  
  
“No one. But no one’s finding out,” insisted Laura. “I think Mr. Steele needs a change in plans…Nairobi sounds far enough away.”  
  
“The moon isn’t far enough,” Murphy said with a snort. “What we need is to figure out who’s on to us. Let’s interview Bernice. We can try tracing the call as well.”  
  
“Hold on. I have a better idea.” There was silence for a moment, then Bernice heard the click of a phone line button being pushed. She glanced back at her own desk phone and saw the illuminated light that signaled activation of the outside line. Moments later, she overheard Laura speak in a louder voice. “Mr. Steele? Laura Holt here...I’m sorry to trouble you, sir…”  
  
“What are you doing?” Murphy’s voice, agitated and trying to whisper.  
  
“Someone reported you were flying in tonight…That’s what I thought…Nairobi? That’s quite a distance, sir…Kenyan coffee would be lovely. I’ll inform Mr. Michaels of your change in plans. Thank you, sir.”  
  
Bernice scurried back to her desk and composed an innocent expression as she addressed herself to editing a typed document. Suddenly her arms and legs weren’t working right, and there was a hollowness in the depths of her stomach. She hadn’t wanted it to be true. Had hoped she was wrong. Moments later, Laura came back out into the reception area, Murphy trailing behind her. Her expression was serious.  
  
“Bernice? Do you have a moment?”  
  
Her heart began to thud. Here it comes…  
  
“This person who called. A man?” She nodded stiffly. “He identified himself as Remington Steele?” Another nod. “What did he sound like?”  
  
Bernice shrugged and forced herself to lie. “A guy. Elegant. Charming.”  
  
“Well, Bernice, whoever he claimed to be, he wasn’t Remington Steele. I just spoke with Mr. Steele. He’s off to Nairobi. Someone was impersonating him. And we need to figure out who it is, because this person could be dangerous.”  
  
Murphy said, “Do you have any idea who it could be? Anything identifiable in his voice?”  
  
Bernice’s pulse raced and her right hand had a betraying tremor. Laura Holt was quick and had outflanked her. Apparently, there was now no other recourse. With Thomas Harlow on her conscience, she rose from her desk and walked around to confront Laura directly. She struggled to hold her voice steady. “I know who the caller was. He was me.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“I can’t keep working like this, Laura. I know what’s going on. And I won’t cover it up.”  
  
“Know what?” And then Laura’s confident expression dissolved into panic as she misunderstood. “Bernice. You’re not leaving, are you? You’re such an asset to us. I know the pay raise wasn’t what we’d like to give you, but business is picking up—”  
  
“—While you and Murphy live on starvation wages and Mr. Steele has a glamorous address and travels the world in style—”  
  
“—Let me have a word with him and see what he can do—”  
  
“—That would be quite a trick,” Bernice interrupted. “Since Mr. Steele doesn’t actually exist.”  
  
“Now wait just a minute!” burst out Murphy, and he stepped forward to stand at his partner’s shoulder. Protecting her. His fair features were angry and Bernice was suddenly aware how tall he really was, and he frightened her a little.  
  
Laura held up a hand, a pacifying gesture that put her back in control. “What do you mean, Bernice?”  
  
She took a deep breath. Thought of Harlow and burned all her bridges. “What I just said. There’s no such person as Remington Steele. He’s a fraud whose been soaking the two of you for your money. That expensive apartment? No one lives there. And if you and Murphy don’t know this, then you’re the worst detectives in Los Angeles.” She looked from Murphy’s angry features to Laura’s pale one, and then pushed her luck. “But I’ve seen the two of you in action. You’re not the worst detectives in town. You’re the best.”  
  
“So where does that lead us?” Laura asked quietly.  
  
She pointed a shaking pencil at Laura. “That either you, Laura, or you, Murph, know it. And are hiding it from the other. Which makes one of you a liar and a fraud.”  
  
“That’s quite an accusation, Bernice. What makes you say that?”  
  
“Oh, a number of things.” Bernice began to tick them off her beautifully manicured nails. “I’ve learned a few tricks since I started working here. There’s the fact that Mr. Steele never calls. Never submits receipts for reimbursement until I inconveniently asked. Has no driver’s license. Owns no property. Doesn’t have a social security number. Or receive a pay check, apart from the rent you pay on his empty apartment.” She looked from one to the other. Murphy’s face was ashen and Laura’s was quiet, and it was pretty obvious who was the better poker player. She continued, damning them both, “And, most tellingly, no PI license.”  
  
Laura began, “I explained that Mr. Steele prefers to remain in the background—”and Bernice cut her off with a shake of her dark head.  
  
“Huh, uh. Once bitten, twice shy. I’m not gonna paper-over another fraud. I don’t know why one of you’s pretending about this. But I need to know the truth, cause it’s my job on the line.”  
  
Murphy looked at his partner. “Laura, I told you hiring outside help was a bad idea.”  
  
But Laura was focused on their secretary. Bernice knew she was being assessed. Judged. Bernice kept silent, letting Laura decide. Finally, just when Bernice thought she could wait no longer, Laura made her decision. “You’re right, Bernice. There is no Remington Steele.”  
  
“Laura!” They both ignored Murphy’s outburst.  
  
The confirmation sent a chill down Bernice’s spine. She hoped she was wrong and now her worse fear was true. Through stiff lips she forced herself to ask, “And the two of you? Are you really detectives? Or is that made up, too?”  
  
At that, Laura smiled brilliantly. “Oh, we’re definitely detectives. Murph and I are licensed private investigators. All those cases,” and she waved at the file cabinet, “They’re real.”  
  
“Then color me confused. What’s going on? Why the deception? Who’s Mr. Steele?”  
  
“Who is he?” Laura exchanged a grin with Murphy. “I guess you could say he’s my alter ego.”  
  
“I think I need to sit down.” And she did. Fortunately, Murphy moved quicker and maneuvered an empty seat behind Bernice just in time, and she fell heavily upon it.  
  
“You see,” Laura continued, “I wanted to be a detective. So I trained, and interned, and after I started my own agency, I discovered that nobody wanted to hire a female private eye. So I created a masculine alter ego, named him after my typewriter and a football team, and brought Murphy on board as a partner. And then – whoosh.” She sketched an uplifting gesture. “More business than Murph and I can handle.”  
  
“Let me get this straight. You created Remington Steele because of…sexism?”  
  
“Right on one. He doesn’t exist. Or, rather, he’s me.”  
  
A corner of Bernice’s mouth lifted. “Remington Steele, c’est moi,” she misquoted and was rewarded with Laura’s answering smile.  
  
“Very like Flaubert. It keeps the clients satisfied, most of them, and meanwhile Murph and I get the job done.”  
  
“Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to catch on?”  
  
“You’re the first person who has. And I’d hazard that’s due to your daily contact with us and the agency.”  
  
“But…Aren’t you worried that someday, a client will figure it out?”  
  
Murphy jumped in. “We have an agreement. If the client insists on meeting Mr. Steele, then we drop him.”  
  
“So far,” continued Laura, “it’s working. We give Mr. Steele a busy travel schedule, and meanwhile Murph and I handle the cases. Mr. Steele gets the credit, and satisfied clients give us all the business we can handle.”  
  
Bernice thought about the drawers of the manila folders filed in Laura’s office. “So…all those cases…none of those involved Mr. Steele?”  
  
“Not a one. It’s all Murph and me.”  
  
“All of them?” She felt her cheeks flush with warmth, and the room swirled a little. How did I get it so backwards? She said, “Here I thought someone was scamming the two of you. Pretending to be someone who didn’t exist. I can’t believe I had it so wrong.”  
  
At that, Laura’s features turned somber. “I’m sorry we deceived you, Bernice. It was wrong, especially after your last job. I can give you a good reference – the best reference – because none of this is your fault and I expect you won’t want to stay. Which is too bad, because Murph and I both think you’re great. And we love having you here.” Laura really looked upset, and, in that moment, Bernice decided she would do everything she could to help this impressive woman who had drawn the short end of life’s stick solely because of her sex.  
  
And so Bernice heard herself say, “I don’t want to leave, either. I like working with you. Both of you. Your cases are interesting. It’s a great environment. And, besides…” and here, her natural good humor restored itself, “besides, It’s a mean old world out there. We sisters gotta stick together.”  
  
Laura grinned. “Sisters in arms.”  
  
“Aw, come on,” said Murphy amiably, “I’m not that bad.”  
  
“You’re the best, Murph,” said Laura. And then Bernice caught a fleeting expression on Murphy, a look that Laura was oblivious to, and Bernice thought, Uh, oh. Laura doesn’t see it.  
  
Laura was still focused on Bernice and continued, “You mean it, Bernice? You don’t mind, now that you know the truth?”  
  
“I think it’s amazing. If inventing a fictional boss is what it takes for a woman to get ahead, then count me in on it.”  
  
“Only…” and Laura’s expression turned serious, “you can’t tell anyone. It has to remain a secret. We could lose our license over this.”  
  
“Cross my heart. Anything to stick it to the man.” Then she grinned. “Except for you, Murph.”  
  
“Thanks, I think.”  
  
Bernice looked from one to the other. Her new bosses and partners. “I’m all in. Your secret’s safe with me. From this day forward, I’ll field Mr. Steele’s messages and keep track of his travels.”  
  
“And juggle the clients and keep Mr. Steele one step ahead of them,” added Murphy.  
  
“You make a pretty good detective, Bernice Foxe,” said Laura. She extended her hand, and Bernice accepted the handshake. “Welcome to Remington Steele, Investigations, partner.”  
  
  
THE END  



End file.
